HeartShaped Box
by silentsnarkonLJ
Summary: Jealous and intoxicated, House pays a late-night visit to Cuddy. Check yes for angsty sex, foul language and other naughty things. Please R&R.


Heart-Shaped Box

Cuddy's windows are dark.

Her driveway is empty.

House knows that doesn't mean a thing.

Parked across the street from her home, he surveilles the crime scene. Despite a liberal infusion of single malt, his thoughts remain disconcertingly clear. He knows all too well what's going on behind closed doors… how, at this very second, that opportunistic bastard probably has Cuddy down on all fours, slipping her a little sympathy… and how all the Scotch in Jersey won't change it.

But he still gives it a shot. Actually, he gives it several.

It isn't until he's killed the half-pint that he decides to attempt the complicated span of her front walk. The pavers are slick with fallen leaves, forcing him to take things slow. Each careful, humiliating step infuriates him more. By the time he reaches the porch, he's filled with enough alcohol-fueled rage to forgo ringing the bell in favor of whaling on her door like it's a piñata. Sometimes the cripple stick comes in handy. Swing away, Merrill, swing away. Lights come on in the house across the street, and he wonders if the pretentious jerks who live there are going to call the cops—again. Fascists.

Then he hears the scrape of the bolt in the lock and nothing else matters.

The door swings open, and House finds himself face-to-face with the object of his disaffection—or rather, face-to-chest. Cuddy stands huddled in the doorway, scrubbed clean of make-up and at least three inches shorter than she appears in her ubiquitous heels. Wearing one of those barely-there satin nighties that always seem to involve a lot more skin than silk, she rubs her exposed shoulders and glares up at him.

"I don't care why you're here…" she hisses, leaning forward to sniff at his clothes. The hated smell of her perfume pricks his nose when she leans in close, as well as the hint of something salty and sweet and uniquely _Cuddy_ underneath. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, trying to fill his lungs with her scent.

He's surprised how cold the air feels when she pulls away again.

"…Or how much you've had to drink," she concludes. "I am _not_ in the mood."

"That's not what your jammies say." The demure positioning of her folded arms is useless against such an obscenely low neckline.

"You have precisely sixty seconds to get off my property." She's trying to play it cool, authoritative, but he can tell by the shaky timbre of her voice just how furious she really is.

That makes two of them.

"Great," he says, using his cane in an attempt to brush her aside. "Then you won't mind if I spend them on your couch."

Evidently, she does mind; Cuddy doesn't cede any ground. She snatches at the cane as it arcs through the air instead, trapping its tip between her dominant left hand and thigh. Though he manages to maintain his grip on the handle, she holds her end tight. One wrong move and he's headed straight for the cement.

"Go. Away." Her clenched teeth glitter in the moonlight.

"I think your neighbors have called the police," he informs her, watching with satisfaction as her soft blue eyes turned startled and round.

Then she narrows her gaze and growls at him--not metaphorically, but an actual _growl_-- a short-lived, vicious little snarl that goes straight to his groin.

He grins. "And I should mention, seeing your fingers splayed across your own breast like that is doing interesting things inside my underwear."

House is abruptly yanked forward as she gives the cane a spiteful tug. Not enough to disrupt the delicate balance of his world, just enough to scare him. Still, he's surprised at the coiled strength in her lean frame… and how hard her nipples are beneath the thin material of her gown.

She releases the cane with a self-congratulatory smirk, no doubt pleased with herself for teaching him a lesson. Cuddy doesn't want to hurt him; she just wants him to know she can.

As if he needed reminding.

"I wasn't kidding about the cops," he says, affecting a careless shrug. "Or my underwear, for that matter."

He watches her brow pucker with worry and knows her keen actuary's mind is considering all possible outcomes. She bites her bottom lip then rises up on tiptoe to peer across the street. He stoops down, allowing her an unobstructed view of the movement behind her neighbor's blinds. It's in his best interest to bide his time, to at least let her _think_ this is still her decision. But ultimately, he's going inside whether she wants him to or not.

After what seems like a small eternity now that the anesthetizing warmth of the alcohol is wearing off, she rocks back on her heels and shoots him a look of apprehensive consent. It's the same look she gets when he asks her to sign off on a risky course of patient treatment, claiming to have explored all other options. The one that says she knows she's being conned, but she's willing to play along—for now.

"Fine." She slips her arm around his back, impatiently ushering him inside. "You can wait in the hall while I call a cab."

He mutters something he supposes is an agreement. At this point, he's willing to say anything to get what he wants. He's barely crossed the threshold and already she's reaching around him to pull the door shut, hiding him away like some dirty little secret. Her breast whispers softly against his leather jacket as she darts into his personal space, maddeningly close. Such a tease.

She throws the latch and retreats to a slightly more appropriate distance. Less than an arm's length away, everything but the iridescent shimmer of her lingerie dissolves in shadow. He rubs his sore thigh and blinks, waiting for his vision to acclimate. Cuddy isn't one of those single women who need a light on in every room to make her feel safe. Her house is shrouded in darkness, as it is every night at this time, except for two small lamps set on dim—one at the front of the house, in the living room, and one toward the back, above the sink in the kitchen. Relatively recent concessions to an anonymous cause, they were added a few years ago, around the same time she moved her bedroom downstairs to the first floor. House has never asked the reasons behind these changes, for once preferring the dull hope of ambiguity to the sharp disappointment of truth. But now, as her heady, erotic scent fills the close confines of the vestibule and pushes the limits of his self-control, a painful certainty twists in his gut: none of this is for him.

"Don't bother to take off your coat," she announces, turning to withdraw deeper into the darkness. "You aren't staying."

Unfortunately, he's too preoccupied with searching for signs of Judas to give her ass the attention it deserves. All the more reason to be pissed when he comes up empty; no familiar tweed jacket hanging from the coat tree, no size ten boring brown men's loafers on the mat by the door. She has covered her tracks well this time, though not well enough.

A quick glance of the living room tells him they are alone. At least as alone as a man and a woman can be with her date still lurking somewhere on the premises. She bends to adjust the hurricane lamp and for an instant is caught in its glare, frozen in time, a butterfly in ether. Her beauty hits him like a physical force.

Or maybe that's the Vicodin.

Casually, he limps over to where her cordless phone sits perched atop a stack of coffee table books she never looks at, and shoves the receiver into his pocket. He isn't planning on needing that cab any time soon.

"I have other telephones, you know." She tries to sound unfazed, bored even, but a rush of blood colors her neck and chest becomingly. It's all he can do to temper his desire with disdain.

Pointing his chin at her pastel pink get-up, he asks, "Is that what you're handing out in lieu of bonuses this year? Because I already got screwed on that stock option."

With an exasperated sigh, she retrieves a knit throw from one of the chairs. Once wrapped around her shoulders, it effectively conceals everything above her waist. "Better…?"

"Define _better_."

"For God's sake, House! Just tell me why you're here!"

"Where's Wilson?" he finally asks, and she goes very quiet and still, the way children and small animals do when they first realize they've been caught.

"I don't—"

"You can drop the denial," he snaps, cutting her off. His face is burning hot, radiating contempt. "I know all about your date. Cameron saw you at the restaurant and couldn't wait to tell me all about it."

Cuddy digests this bit of information with an idiosyncratic working of her jaw which suggests his former employee will have a very uncomfortable conversation in the near future. Not that he really cares. That's Cameron's problem. His is standing right in front of him, tossing her head back at a stubborn angle.

"Yes, I had dinner with Wilson. We're friends. So what…?"

He wants to shake her, to call her a whore and a liar. He wants to kiss her.

Instead, he strikes out against her in the only way his conscience will allow. "So, do you wear a strapless dress when you hang out with all your friends, or only those you intend to fuck?"

She draws in a deep breath. It passes through her in a slow, hostile shudder. "Let's get something straight. Whom I have dinner with, what I wear and _who I fuck_ is none of your business, understand?"

Something ugly and thrilling stirs in him as he realizes Cuddy's not going to accept the demise of her booty call easily; she's going to put up a fight. "What I understand is that losing a kid finally made you pathetic enough for Jimmy to want you. Congratulations."

Her achingly expressive features seem to crumple for the briefest instant. "Shut up."

"I guess it's a good thing that Amber died," he continues, relentlessly piling on the humiliation. "She probably wouldn't have appreciated you screwing her boyfriend."

Her eyes fill with enraged tears, and he feels a faint twitch of remorse—one he chooses to ignore.

"On the other hand, I could be wrong. Maybe she would've been into it, and you could've taken them both on."

"That's enough!" she shouts. "I don't want to hear anymore!"

"Then make him leave." Operating on a purely instinctual level, he backs her toward the fireplace until the heels of her bare feet are flush with the hearth. Until she has nowhere to run. "Make him leave, or I will."

"Y-you have no right…" she sputters.

"Have it your way." Forsaking grace for speed, he lurches off in the direction of her room. He'll drag Wilson out kicking and screaming, if that's what he has to do.

"House, there's no one else here!" She's immediately at his back, unsuccessfully trying to maneuver around him before he reaches the hall. "James left hours ago!"

_James._

The intimacy implied in that one syllable puts an added stagger in his step. He tells himself not to think about it, to force that pain down deep inside with all the rest. Revenge is waiting for him on the other side of her bedroom door.

She grabs his arm as he reaches for the knob. "House, stop acting like an idiot!"

It's her tone that does it. That haughty, Dean Cuddy-in-control sneer. He turns and catches her by one thin wrist, strangely excited by how small the bones feel in his grip. "I'm an idiot…?" he seethes. "You're the one who answers her door smelling like The Mustang Ranch."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Her indignation lacks the necessary vehemence to make it ring true.

"Allow me to put it this way…" As his lips brush the delicate scrollwork of her ear, she freezes. "I can smell you, Lisa."

"You're disgusting." Wrenching her arm free, she swallows nervously, and he watches the flutter of delicate muscles with something akin to fascination. "And you're wrong. I had sex tonight, but it wasn't with Wilson. Or anyone else for that matter."

He gapes at her, speechless for once. His mind spins in a tumult of cynical doubts and self-recriminations, but one thought keeps churning its way to the surface: a mental image of Cuddy with a vibrator shoved between her thighs.

"That's right," she laughs bitterly. The hollow, shameful sound is more than enough to convince him of her sincerity. "I had that special kind of sex a woman only has when she can't find a partner."

Embarrassed, unsure of what he might say, House glances away. When there was reason to be jealous, his tongue was practically tripping over itself with hate. Without it, what remains is far more dangerous and unpredictable.

Cuddy, however, still has more than enough hatred left for both of them. "I think you've degraded me enough for one night. Get out."

"I'm sorry." He regrets the words as soon as they're uttered, both for the apology itself and the pity it represents.

"Get out!"

"Let me make it up to you."

Too shocked to dissimilate, she simply stares, seeming to comprehend where this is headed almost before he does. Without a word, he senses her indecision, the struggle between the control she wants and the release her body needs. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, but he can't help himself.

"Look, if you want to wake up in the morning and pretend none of this ever happened, that's fine. I'll leave. Just let me get you off first."

She licks her lips, catalyst to a fresh spasm of desire. Then, a barely perceptible nod. "Okay."

House doesn't give her a chance to rethink her decision. Covering her mouth with his own, he stakes an urgent claim with tongue and teeth. Coaxing her into consumption. His lips explore the sensitive underside of her jaw… her throat… her clavicle. His hands fit themselves to the hourglass contours of her hips.

"Okay," she whispers again, though he can't tell which of them it's meant to reassure. Closing her eyes, she arches the elegant line of her neck to his kisses.

He fumbles open the door at his back and pulls her inside, relying on memory alone to guide him. His other faculties are zeroed in on Cuddy, consumed with her reaction to each stroke and caress. Learning new ways to please her. He wants to memorize the most intimate details so he can replay them in his head later, when then they are again at war. Impatiently, she tugs at his clothes, yanking the jacket from his shoulders. He lowers her to the bed and shrugs the jacket onto the floor.

Her legs hang over the side of the mattress. Carefully moving between them, he gets down on his knees and begins inching up the hem of her gown. Revealing her at a deliberate, agonizing pace. She shudders and tenses beneath him but remains gloriously submissive. Compliant.

He makes a point to meet her gaze. "So_ that's _why I couldn't detect a panty line."

"I told you," she sighs, squirming in the already-twisted sheets. "I wasn't expecting company."

"I'm not exactly complaining." He takes a moment to admire the view, in particular the tiny strip of dark curls adorning the sanctum sanctorum. The skin on either side is a delicate pink. Soft, too. "As a matter of fact, from now on, I think you should greet all your guests this way."

"All of them," she asks breathily, "or just you?"

He leans forward to press a single, lingering kiss to the apex of that tender flesh. "Just me."

Cuddy watches him nudge her thighs open. He can feel her slitted eyes burning into the top of his head as he spreads her wide, exposing her completely. She whimpers and tries to twist away, but he slides his hands under her ass, palming her buttocks. Using his thumbs, he stretches her wider still. He flicks his tongue over her—once, twice. She tastes like sea salt and ripe peaches.

She gasps as he licks at her slick folds, penetrating and withdrawing in a lazy, syncopated rhythm. Her short little nails scratch his shoulders through his shirt. Her hips buck convulsively. She arches off the bed to thrust against him, cursing and moaning when he plunges a finger deep inside.

"That's it," he says, nuzzling her clit. "That's my girl. Come all over me."

He drinks her in, swallowing greedily until her juices run down his chin. Until she cries out his name, ordering and finally begging him to fuck her. Then he pushes down his jeans and enters her in one fierce shove. Tearing through her boundaries. Ripping away her defenses. Possessing her fully.

So that there is nothing between them.

Not even a condom.

***

Cuddy pulls the bedclothes to her chin and props herself up on one elbow to watch him dress. She's been increasingly quiet for awhile now. By morning, she'll have retreated so far down in her administrative shell, he'll practically have to punch a donor in order for her to acknowledge his presence. But it isn't in him to hang around, watching her grow distant by degrees. He removes her telephone from his jacket pocket and places it on the nightstand.

"House, we should talk."

He glances over to where she sits on the edge of the bed, toying with a stray pillow. A red welter of beard abrasion peeks out at him from the side of one breast, where the blanket doesn't quite cover—his mark upon her skin.

"I'm not on birth control."

"I know." Her stunned silence seems too much like an accusation, so he adds, "Odds are, nothing will come of it."

"And if it does…?" Her voice sounds strained, like she's trying to talk while holding her breath at the same time.

He shrugs, careless in his lies. "If it does, we won't talk then, either."

She sighs, as if that's what she wanted to hear all along. He already has more than enough to think about for one night, though. He'll puzzle over her non-reaction tomorrow. Right now, he just wants to go home and climb into bed with the memory of her naked and welcoming still fresh in his mind. He retrieves his cane from where it somehow ended up on the floor near the hallway.

"House...?" she calls out to his back.

"Yeah…?"

"I owe you one."

He nods somberly. "So tomorrow night, then?"

Cuddy snorts and rolls onto her side. But she doesn't say no. She never was any good at denying him.

Smiling, he limps out her door, into the night.


End file.
